


Um lar em você

by SgtPepper007



Series: EXO Oneshots [19]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Best Friends, Brazil, Cussing, Drinking, Freedom, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, Poetry, Smoking, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SgtPepper007/pseuds/SgtPepper007
Summary: Chanyeol makes the best out of the hot weather he hates so much one particular humid night and shares the moment with his best friend, hours away yet close to heart.
Relationships: Park Chanyeol & Wu Yi Fan | Kris, Park Chanyeol/Wu Yi Fan | Kris
Series: EXO Oneshots [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1257455
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	Um lar em você

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallacyofwhat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallacyofwhat/gifts).



> This oneshot is in honour of my dearest friend's brithday, J. I love you so much and I hope you'll enjoy this writing (and this rare pair ;) ) <3 
> 
> Inspiration suddenly hit me while listening to a particular song and while listening to African music. The songs are listed below. You are free to listen to them to enhance the mood and to discover great artists who deserve more recognition.  
> [Habib Koité - I Ka Barra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAtAkHt6Y-k&ab_channel=HabibKoit%C3%A9-Topic)  
> [Ali Farka Touré (Feat. Ry Cooder) - Ai Da](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZrHGJKIUE8&ab_channel=WorldCircuitRecords)  
> [Les Colocs - Paysage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BlZTGmxgJYA&ab_channel=LesColocs-Topic)
> 
> Disclaimer: unbeta-ed.

Exhaling the smoke from the cigarette perched between his lips, Chanyeol slowly closed his eyes before opening them again, eyelids fluttering as he looked at the starless sky above him. He slouched a little bit more on his seat, craning his neck in order to tilt his head for a better view of the dark clear sky. He took another breath of cigarette, smiling at the little clouds of smoke forming before his eyes. He was doing a pretty good job at decorating the sky with his own clouds, failing his attempts at making different shapes out of them. 

The night was particularly warm, the humidity clinging to Chanyeol’s skin, annoyingly so. Even after spending two months in São Paolo, he couldn’t get used to the persistent hot weather. He was expecting the weather to be quite a drastic contrast to Seoul, but he hadn’t been mentally prepared enough for the sudden switch of seasons. After all, he had flown to Brazil during said country’s summer, a brutal change from January’s cold in South Korea. It was March yet it wasn’t getting any better. “Screw climate change n’ all that shit,” Chanyeol muttered under his breath. His alcohol-induced self wasn’t helping in cooling himself down either but he turned a blind eye on that, his hazy mind ignoring the drops of sweat rolling down his skin.

His feet swayed to the sound of the low music playing from his flatmate’s bluetooth speaker on the balcony, Habib Koité’s voice echoing gently in the deserted street. It wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone who would be sleeping, including his three flatmates, but it was audible enough for Chanyeol to listen to the music comfortably. He could be loud whenever he deemed to, but he was aware that 2am wasn’t particularly a good hour to let himself loose with the decibels he could produce. He was a thoughtful neighbour despite his clumsiness.

Chanyeol took a swig of his beer bottle, cigarette secured between his index and middle finger. He sighed satisfyingly once the liquid slid down his throat, the young man smiling yet again while bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking another drag of it. He exhaled once again, the taste of the herb pleasantly caressing his senses. He didn’t hallucinate; São Paolo’s tobacco was truly better than Seoul’s. 

After a few gulps of beer, Chanyeol disposed of the glass bottle at the side of his seat. He had drunk more of the alcoholic beverage a few hours earlier with his flatmates, and Chanyeol could feel the pleasant buzz deepen by the time he finished this one. A few beats passed without any sound, only the quiet of the night basking Chanyeol in its arms before Ali Farka Touré’s acoustic guitar took over, the musician’s voice resonating instead of Habib Koité’s. Chanyeol’s feet took a moment before changing its rhythm to match the new one, slower and more soothing. The air wouldn’t get cooler, Chanyeol’s tank top and light sports shorts not doing the desired effect of being less suffocating. But even if he swore he was sweating in areas he had never sweated from before, his smile wouldn’t leave his lips. Hell could break loose; Chanyeol was having a fantastic night on his own and nothing could ruin it, not even the stifling heat. 

He wondered what could possibly be better than sitting on his balcony in São Paolo while drinking beer and listening to African music, without any worries and while being completely free. “Huh… There is somethin’ missing,” Chanyeol said to himself, eyebrows furrowed for a second. He brightened a moment later, smiling even wider.

At his thought, Chanyeol patted his pockets and took his phone out as an idea crossed his mind. The only thing that would make the night better would be to talk with his best friend. Without thinking twice, he found Yi Fan’s contact and pressed the call button. He crushed the cigarette bud on the ashtray by the windowsill, ringing echoing in his ear as he waited for his best friend to pick up the call. After a couple of rings, he landed on the voicemail, which earned Chanyeol a pout of his own. He dialed the number once again until it redirected his call to the voicemail for a second time. Chanyeol looked at his friend’s contact photo and scrutinized it, “I’m gonna call until you answer, Fan.” 

Yi Fan eventually answered the incoming call after his best friend’s fourth attempt. _“Mmm? Hello?”_ The interlocutor was met with no response, Chanyeol not having noticed that the phone had stopped ringing. _“Hello? If it’s a fucking automated call again I swear-”_

This seemed to have snapped Chanyeol out of his trance as he was enjoying the instrumental part of the song, really into the vibe of it. He jumped in surprise, not quite expecting his best friend to answer just yet. The man was good at avoiding his calls. “Yi Fan! Hey!”

A groan was heard at the end of the line, followed by a loud and ungraceful yawn. _“Yeol? I should have known it was you, you’re the only one who’s this persistent.”_

Chanyeol chuckled, “Yes, it’s me, your best friend livin’ the best time of his life in Brazil!”

 _“Mmmm, yeah,”_ another groan resonated in Chanyeol’s ear. _“Why are you-”_

Yi Fan’s voice was suddenly cut, Chanyeol having failed at keeping his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, his device falling and colliding with the floor. He cussed under his breath, sighing in relief once he inspected his phone and noted that there wasn’t a single scratch. Or at least not a new one. “Sorry, Fan! How you doin’ over there?”

_“What’s that language?”_

Chanyeol only then realised that Yi Fan’s voice was more hoarse than usual. Was he sick? “Did you hit your head or somethin’? I’m speakin’ Korean, dude.”

_“I know, dumbass. I’m asking about the song. What’s that language?”_

“Oh!” Chanyeol chuckled, finding the ordeal funnier than it actually was. Yi Fan probably caught a glimpse of the song playing when Ali Farka Touré’s singing remained, the phone having fallen next to the speaker. “It’s African. Sekou made a playlist for me!”

_“Africa is a continent, not a language Chan-”_

“So, how're you doin’? What’re you up to?”

_“Yeol, do you have any idea what time it is right now?”_

“Uhh…” The young man looked at his phone screen, “2:24am.”

A sigh echoed at the end of the line. Chanyeol could picture his friend pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, a gesture Yi Fan did whenever he sighed like that. _“So what time is it here, then?”_ Chanyeol froze, squinting his eyes as he tried to count the time zone Yi Fan was in. He was in Brazil while Yi Fan was in China, which meant… He was starting to count on his free hand’s fingers when his friend got impatient. _“It’s 1pm here, Yeol. 1pm.”_

“Ah! Yes! 1pm!” Chanyeol smiled, unaffected by the loud, desperate sigh resonating in his device.

_“You know I work late night shifts, right?”_

“Yes?”

Silence. 

_“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”_

Chanyeol was about to deny it until he realised that the beers he took really kicked in. The slight initial buzz had taken greater proportions. Maybe he was more drunk than he had intended to get at first. “...I might be?”

Another sigh. _“Anyway… Did you wake me up for a good reason at least? I’m hanging up if you didn’t.”_

“Just felt like talkin’ to you, you know? I was listening to the song when I thought ‘the only way it could get better is callin’ Yi Fan’ and I did it!” Chanyeol could hear a little bit of shuffling on the other end, Yi Fan probably moving on his bedsheets. “I miss you so much, Fan. If only you could be here on the balcony with me… We would have a blast!”

Chanyeol started to ramble, describing sudden images crossing his mind about various scenarios of the two best friends sharing an apartment together in São Paolo, going to the local musicians’ jams in the evenings, enjoying bossa nova and samba improvisations by the street musicians and in bars, walking on the beach, tasting _pão de queijo_ , _açai_ , _coxinha_ , _feijoada_ and so many more mouth watering dishes. He talked about the both of them learning and speaking Portuguese, getting to know the various idioms specific from the region, lazing around all day in the chaos of the city, the beautiful city of Brazil Chanyeol was enamoured with. He would have a friend with whom he could complain about the hot, humid weather aside from his flatmates, to walk around and explore the neighbourhoods with.

After ceasing his rambling, Chanyeol thought that Yi Fan had indeed hung up, no sound coming from his phone for a long moment before faint breathing made its way to his ears. The only thing he could hear was Yi Fan’s breathing for the next minute, basking in the hot weather, the music resonating and his friend’s silent presence. Chanyeol stayed silent as well, focusing on each and every noise that could penetrate his ear. 

Suddenly, Yi Fan spoke. _“We had an African band playing a gig two weeks ago at the venue. I can give you the name if you’re interested.”_

Chanyeol smiled. It was Yi Fan’s way of saying he wouldn’t hang up, that he would stay on the line regardless of the unreasonable reason Chanyeol decided to wake the other man up from the sleep he most probably needed. Yi Fan worked as a sound engineer for a small, popular venue in Hong Kong, and so he had irregular night shifts and even had to drive to farther cities when he took different contracts. The only sleep he could get was barely before the sun rose until late afternoon for soundchecks. 

He wasn’t sure if the heat was starting to play tricks on him or if he truly had drunk too much beer, but Chanyeol swore he felt his heart melt along with his body under the high humidity rate. “Thanks, Fan. I would love it.”

 _“Alright, then. Will do. So, how are you doing in_ _S_ _ão Paolo? Regretting anything yet?”_

Regret; it was something Chanyeol had felt all of his life in Seoul from what he could recall. Booking a one way ticket to São Paolo and leaving with only a half full backpack wasn’t the wisest idea he’d had, but it meant a ticket to freedom. He jumped on the occasion and swore he wouldn’t look back. “Not at all.”

_“Mmmm. And how are you doing? How is it there?”_

Brazil was everything he could dream of; fascinating culture, beautiful sceneries, beaches to no end, kind and warmhearted people, great music and local artists, a beautiful language he was utterly attracted to.

Chanyeol's neighbourhood wasn't the safest one. Robberies weren't unusual, the streets were small, dirt and poverty lying in every corner. His rent was cheap and uncomfortably small for 4 tenants to live in, but that was the approach Chanyeol had chosen in order to have the experience he was longing for. He didn't want to have anything to do with the filthy smell of money and so he got what he wanted. It wasn't like he could afford more anyway. Two of his flatmates and a couple of neighbours were immigrants, the native Brazilian citizens around the corner humble and simple. He couldn’t say it was the same for everyone in all the areas in São Paolo, but most of the people he met on his journey so far were truly good people. His neighbourhood wasn’t the safest, the citizens only trying their best to get by, including himself. His life conditions weren't ideal, but he had enough to eat, drink and enjoy. It was plenty enough.

One of his flatmates named Sekou, a Malian man in his mid fourties with a natural strong and tall build and especially dark skin, was a very nice person. Chanyeol especially loved hearing stories from his childhood in Mali. He thoroughly enjoyed spending a couple of hours chatting with the older man, smoking and sometimes tagging along at the older man’s job at a hair salon. He even taught him a few words in Bambara and in French. As to his other immigrant flatmate Gabriel, a French Canadian young man native from Montréal, Chanyeol had a harder time approaching him. The former could be grumpy, with his head stuck in his own ass, like Sekou liked to say. But once he started to open up, Chanyeol found that he was quite the entertaining and adventurous guy, although temperamental. He was younger than Chanyeol by five years and much more immature than him but it didn’t stop them from bonding more and more with time. Sekou and Gabriel especially got along although it was quite surprising. But Chanyeol thought the two balanced each other oddly well, or rather that the wise African man kept the grumpy young adult at bay. 

Lastly, Carlos was truly the person bringing peace and joy in the tiny, old apartment. The Brazilian man from a village not far from Rio de Janeiro had a heart of gold. He was only twenty eight years old, a year older than Chanyeol, but he was the most generous and humble man he knew. He was nice enough to teach Portuguese to his three flatmates, their only common language aside from their rusty and definitely not fluid English. The four of them had an odd balance, but Chanyeol couldn’t have asked for better flatmates.

Brazil was vibrant, Brazil was inspiration, without any ties; it was a door for Chanyeol to seek freedom of being himself.

Chanyeol was an artist, he created his own crafts with words, poetry. Seoul was small and suffocating, judgemental and square. Chanyeol wanted an explosion of life and colours, different shapes and sounds, variety and beauty in the people he met, in their mindset, in their values and in their mind. His poetry reached the heart of Brazilians, they understood him and his character. They welcomed the burst of colours shaping him into the person that he was. 

Brazil was the polar opposite of South Korea. And Chanyeol loved it.

“I feel like São Paolo is my home,” Chanyeol replied to his best friend while reminiscing of his adventures and meetings ever since the start of his brand new life in the Brazilian city. He had left everything he knew behind in Seoul. Living in São Paolo was an occasion for him to discover a new, real side of himself. South Korea had enclosed and restrained Chanyeol from blossoming with its immoral, superficial and unattainable ideals. And being a freelancer, poor and jobless poet in a foreign land wouldn’t stop him. 

He could almost hear Yi Fan smile through his words, _“I’m glad you found it.”_

Chanyeol craned his neck on the top of his seat again, eyes gazing at the sky. It didn’t have many stars, just like Seoul, but the atmosphere, the air and the smell were different. Everything about the city and his neighbourhood were different. “You know, Gabriel showed me a song of a band from his hometown.”

_“Gabriel? Your flatmate? And the Brazilian one… Carlos was it?”_

“Carlos, yes. But yeah, Gabriel is the Canadian one.”

_“Stupid French names, I never remember them.”_

Chanyeol laughed, catching a faint chuckle from the other man as well. “Anyway, he made me listen to a song, right? It’s called _Paysage_ , ‘landscape’ in Korean. Sekou liked it 'cause it’s African influenced and Carlos found the Canadian French-African mix kind of cool. Turns out the lyrics of the song are a poem.”

_“A poem from who?”_

“Another French name you wouldn’t remember: Charles Baudelaire.”

_“Fucking hell-”_

Chanyeol snorted before resting his feet on top of the handrail, “You get used to it. So yeah, the poem's really great.”

_“What is it about?”_

Chanyeol spent the next minutes talking about the meaning of the poem, straying to different topics in the way. While Chanyeol rambled on and on, Yi Fan’s questions slowly shortened before becoming hums of approval, which eventually ceased. Chanyeol progressively sobered up as well, opting for staying quiet once he could hear steady, profound breathing. Yi Fan had fallen asleep. The young man didn’t hang up nonetheless, watching the clear, starless sky as he listened to his friend’s slow inhales and exhales.

**_Landscape_ **

_“I would, to compose my eclogues chastely,_

_Lie down close to the sky like an astrologer,_

_And, near the church towers, listen while I dream_

_To their solemn anthems borne to me by the wind._

_My chin cupped in both hands, high up in my garret_

_I shall see the workshops where they chatter and sing,_

_The chimneys, the belfries, those masts of the city,_

_And the skies that make one dream of eternity._

_It is sweet, through the mist, to see the stars_

_Appear in the heavens, the lamps in the windows,_

_The streams of smoke rise in the firmament_

_And the moon spread out her pale enchantment._

_I shall see the springtimes, the summers, the autumns;_

_And when winter comes with its monotonous snow,_

_I shall close all the shutters and draw all the drapes_

_So I can build at night my fairy palaces._

_Then I shall dream of pale blue horizons, gardens,_

_Fountains weeping into alabaster basins,_

_Of kisses, of birds singing morning and evening,_

_And of all that is most childlike in the Idyl._

_Riot, storming vainly at my window,_

_Will not make me raise my head from my desk,_

_For I shall be plunged in the voluptuousness_

_Of evoking the Springtime with my will alone,_

_Of drawing forth a sun from my heart, and making_

_Of my burning thoughts a warm atmosphere.”_

  
  


‘Paysage’ written by Charles Baudelaire, translated from 

French to English by William Aggeler.


End file.
